A Speech Act
by TellNearaToWrite
Summary: John Watson considered himself to be a fairly ordinary man with a fairly ordinary life. That was, of course, until he moved in with Sherlock Holmes, a mute man who claims the self-made title of "Consulting Detective".


This will be my very first fic for BBC Sherlock, but I sort of love this idea, and hope you will too. That said, I'd like to give warning to my likely slow updates, because I just take forever to focus on getting things done. Hopefully I'll manage to pull myself together for this one. Anyway, enjoy!

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**Chapter 1:**

John Watson considered himself to be a fairly ordinary man. The bit of his life which was somewhat more than ordinary came to a spectacular close with a bullet in his shoulder and a resulting limp and case of post-traumatic stress disorder. He did not expect to ever amount to anything greater than ordinary in the remainder of his life; perhaps he would eventually settle down, and perhaps he would grow to an old age as a doctor at a small but respectable clinic. He assumed this to be the culmination of his life. This one day, though, seemed to want to prove all of his thoughts wrong.

"Now, he's a little odd," Mike Stamford warned him. "But I think you should like him. Might take a little…getting used to." Cautions aside, Mike pushed open the lab door and entered the room, John following him closely. The doctor glanced about quickly, eyes appraising.

"Bit different from my day," he commented. Mike gave a small snort of laughter and nodded his head in the direction of a young man who'd barely turned to look at them as they entered.

"This is an old friend of mine, John Watson," he said, a faint smile on his face. John turned to look, his curiosity growing as the young man leaned back from the table. His hands moved in a complicated series of gestures with ease and just a touch of urgency, ending in the mimicry of him holding a phone to his ear. Mike just chuckled fondly. "And what's wrong with yours?" There was a touch of impatience on the young man's sharp face as he shook his head, fingers flashing once more. "You should get a better carrier, mate. Mine's in my other coat."

"Oh," John said, the young man's gesture and Mike's words piecing together in his mind. "Phone? You can borrow mine. Here." He took a step around the edge of the table, holding it out. The young man tilted his head ever so slightly in what seemed to be confusion, his head of dark curls shifting. Regardless, he stood smoothly, walking toward John with a slight nod, one hand absently lifting to his chin and then moving out, the gesture striking a familiar chord in John's mind. The young man took the phone, tipping his head over it as he snapped it open, his fingers dancing over the keys even as the slow turn of John's mind finally recognized that the man was using sign language. "Wait, you…" His words died in his throat as the young man glanced up, their eyes connecting briefly. The thought that the man did not seem to be deaf briefly crossed his mind, and he was left in confused wonder as his phone was returned to him and the man began a tentative series of motions in John's direction, piercing eyes seeming to pick him apart.

Mike laughed, appearing to notice John's sudden distress as he realized he did not have the knowledge to communicate with the man before him. "So far as I know, he's never spoken a word to anyone, but he won't explain why. And he wants to know where you're from," Mike said as the door opened and a woman entered the room. The young man shot Mike a withering look, a sound of disgust in his throat as he repeated his gestures once more, greatly slowed down and exaggerated. "Afternoon, Molly," Mike said, getting only a smile in response, as the woman appeared to be focused upon the emphatically gesturing man.

"He asked 'Afghanistan or Iraq?'" the woman, Molly, said, giving John a small nod, as though the question she'd vocalized was nothing out of the norm. The young man plucked the coffee mug from her hands. "Black, two sugars," she said with yet another brief smile.

"Wait, what?" he finally blurted out, only to find himself being ignored. The young man had turned his gaze away from John, head tilted slightly once more, looking a question at Molly as he brushed a finger across his lips.

"It wasn't working for me," she said with a shake of her head. She turned to leave as the young man gave a slight shrug, but stopped when he held up an imperious finger. He took a sip of the coffee, his nose wrinkling in what appeared to be disgust for just a moment, before he placed the cup on the table, launching into another series of lightning fast gestures.

Almost immediately, Mike made a sound of disagreement. "Hey!"

The man paused, and Molly turned her head toward John. "He says it's unfortunate that you don't seem to understand him, and Mike is terrible at translating."

"My translation is fine," came the grumbled response from across the room. "He just signs so bloody fast."

John nearly smiled as the young man rolled his eyes in an exaggerated manner. His sharp, nearly blue eyes locked onto John curiously, as though the force of his scrutiny alone could pull the answer of his unasked questions from the air. Just as quickly as the gaze had settled on him, it turned back to Molly, the animated gestures continuing as though they had never been interrupted.

After a few moments, she made a small noise of pleasant surprise. "Oh, you're moving in together?" she asked, turning to John curiously.

"What?" he asked.

"You're going to be flatmates. He wants to know what you think of the violin. He plays when he's thinking, and he wants to know if that would bother you." Molly gave him a sympathetic smile as he stared at her, before his eyes slowly slid to the young man. He was studying John intently.

"I'm sorry, what?" he asked, setting the young man off in another flurry of gestures. "You told him about me?" he accused, turning to look at Mike. The man shook his head, seeming faintly amused.

"Not a word."

"He says he doesn't talk," Molly continued, drawing his attention back, "so you won't have to worry about him being too loud, but that it might be awkward for you unless you learn a bit about sign language. He does write notes, though, so you won't be entirely in the dark." That sympathetic smile never left Molly's face.

"I'm sorry, what?" he repeated. The young man rolled his eyes impatiently, making an exaggerated sighing sound. He wheeled about, reaching for a coat and scarf that had gone unnoticed by John on a table on the far side of the room. He put them on, gesturing toward his wrist as though pointing at a watch.

"Nice to meet you," Molly said with a nod, turning toward the doors to let herself out, as if she'd been dismissed. She disappeared before John could respond, and he was left staring at the young man before him, utterly aghast. He felt himself being picked apart by the man's gaze once more as the he walked forward, gesturing once more with a glance toward Mike.

"He'll see you tomorrow," Mike said, earning a nod from the man as he approached the door.

"Now—_hang on_." John threw a hand up, voice sharp in indignation. "You want to go look at a flat? We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting. I don't even know your name." The young man seemed surprised, pausing for a moment, before turning back and giving John a questioning look, as though he couldn't quite understand what he was talking about. He lifted his hands, fingers slowly creating a somewhat familiar pattern, which made John sigh in vexed realization. "It was Afghanistan," he answered wearily. "How did you know?" He waited expectantly for the young man to continue, and after a moment, it seemed he had realized that this wasn't some sort of rhetorical question. He shot a brief glance in Mike's direction, and then focused on John once more.

Mike made a small, disgruntled sound before he started rattling off translations over the running stream of quick motions the man made. "Army doctor…injured in action…brother who is worried about…ugh…didn't catch that bit. Says you have a therapist, and something about your limp, but I actually don't know what that was supposed to mean." He gave John an apologetic look even as the young man gave him a tight lipped smile. He rummaged in the pockets of his dark coat for a moment before drawing out a pen and paper, and leaning against the table to write. He turned and pressed the paper into John's hand, giving him a nod, before sweeping out of the room.

John looked down at the paper, business card sized and heavy in his hand.

_**Sherlock Holmes**_

_221B Baker Street_

_7pm_

He stared at the paper, trying desperately to unravel what had just happened. He turned his eyes toward Mike, seeking answers, and was only given a brief smile. "Yeah, he's always like that."


End file.
